


The Little Stranger

by Arithanas



Series: Love Demands Sacrifices [15]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Gen, Illnesses, Injury Recovery, Pets, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-04-02 07:00:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4050625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>September 1637, Blois. As Athos' recovery progress, Bragelonne was graced with the addition of a little stranger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Stranger

_With any recovery from morbidity,_ __  
_there must go a certain healthy humiliation._  
~Gilbert K. Chesterton

"Just give me the cup!" Athos voice could be heard by the open door. "I'll take the remedy without any honey!"

"Man up and take the honey in one draught!" Porthos called from the threshold. "It is your assurance against the devils. The doctor said so. A stroke of genius he called that fortunate prank of mine."

Inside the room, Porthos could see how Raoul straddled his bedridden father's legs, trying to feed him the mandatory spoonful of honey, as was prescribed. Athos was trying to escape from it again; a situation that confirmed Athos had not a sweet tooth in his body.

"Divine inspiration, I tell you, _M. le Comte_!" The doctor confirmed from the other side of the wall, which was a good measure because Athos was in his best day to deliver murderous gazes.

"I'm quite serious, Athos: man up!"

Since that blessed night of the blood Porthos stepped up and took Grimaud's place as Athos' guardian and the good surgeon seemed to respect that.

"So, how's the patient?"

"You can judge his condition by how loud his protests are voiced," the man said and stifled a bout of laughter. "He still needs some rest, but if this auscultation shows that everything is in its due place, _M. le Comte_ might be fit to rise from his bed and walk around a bit today."

"Glad to hear good news," Porthos couldn't help to feel a little proud.

"May I see my patient now?"

Porthos opened the door and came to the rescue his friend from his tiny tormentor; Athos seemed to appreciate the help but his eyes over the brim of the cup looked shocked when Raoul used his legs to hug Porthos' wide frame. As if it wasn't be expected for them to be chums.

"Chug down that nasty brew, Athos!" Porthos encouraged and used his arm to steady Raoul's body. "The doctor has great news to you today. He had just told me so, so be grateful and don't give him pointless grief."

"Spare me your condescendence." Athos had time to say between sips.

"Is he?" Raoul's face couldn't hide his excitement.

"Oh, yes, indeed. Good news are on the way." Porthos carried the child away, without giving a spare glance to the ill man, "And maybe if Athos is well behaved and the doctor let him be up and about, we can tell him about the little stranger this night…"

"What little stranger?" Athos managed to ask before the door closed behind Porthos.

...

The routine of the house was thrown upside down around midday, when usually the servants were getting ready for a small repast. Porthos got all of them in motion, because the master was to take a stroll, the corridors were to be free and some furniture were to be set aside, for there those were an inconvenience for two men walking side by side.

Athos, resting his weight on Porthos' broad shoulder, hobbled his first steps in a fortnight. If it wasn't for the jaundice, he would be horribly pale; even Raoul noticed how much effort was implied in the short distance between Athos' rooms and the stairwell of the back steps. Porthos, who knew Athos would die in silence rather than to ask for help, decided to act by the rule of least effort.

"Faith!" The exclamation was made in such a loud voice that all the onlookers, Athos included, turned their heads to see him.

At that precise moment, Porthos swept Athos off his feet, prompting a shocked gasp on Grimaud's part, a cheer on Raoul, and a loud exclamation on the rest of the staff who would never dared to lay hands on the master of the house when he could be, even if barely, able to move by his own will. Porthos secured his hands around Athos' shoulders and knees, feeling his friend stiff as a board.

"I believe you've lost a considerable amount of weight, dear."

Porthos overstepped the boundaries of his cockiness with the last dear, because Athos recovered the ability to speak.

"Put me down, Porthos!"

"You hardly represent any weight at all," Porthos protested and, to prove his point, he gave two long strides, leaving behind the rest of the entourage, "there is no need to issue any word of gratitude."

"I can walk, on my word!"

"I know you can walk," Porthos retorted and passed Athos' legs over the banister, "but the doctor said you need a sun cure and at this rate, by the time you reach the landing, it would be midnight!"

There was no way to dignify such statement with an answer and Athos shut his mouth, silently consenting to be carried down the stairs. Silence was his armor against this little humiliation and Porthos acknowledged it and not even Raoul's entreaties made him utter a word until they reached the little yard inside the castle, by the hot house and at short distance of the kitchen. The place was furnished with an old, heavy armchair and one of the benches of the servants, Porthos grunted his approval and laid Athos weight in the chair while Raoul was prating about how that was Athos' favorite chair in the salon.

"Yes, yes, Raoul, now go somewhere and play for a bit," Porthos said, ruffling the boy's hair, "The Count and me had to talk about boring things."

"Alright!" Raoul said and waited until Athos granted his nod of approval. "I shall come back later."

"Did you really know this was my favorite siting furniture?" Athos asked with a faint smile, his eyes were following Raoul's way to the stables.

"No, but Raoul felt the need to comment on it, I was just being polite."

"What are those boring things you wanted to talk about?"

"First things first. Grimaud!"

Grimaud poked his head out of the kitchen, just of enough to heed the call properly. Athos noticed his hands were not visible; he was concealing his midday food.

"The papers! And something to drink!"

"You are getting used to boss people around, I see."

"You were not available and the void was felt. I was trying to maintain some sense of stability. Now, off with the dressing gown, you need to get all the sun you can!"

Athos let himself to be disrobed, half an ear on Porthos continuous chatter, part of him trying to master the itch that have been driving him crazy the last days.

"…And then, I notice it was better to call you my overseer in Bracieux so you can have free reign to spend at will without any one poking their noses in it. Not that you would try to swindle with my propriety but, you know, the mistress is the mistress…"

"I never agreed to it," Athos gave him one of his stern looks. "That's underhanded clause is low, even for of you."

"Do you mean I should not place my confidence on you?

"I mean, you are kicking a man when he's down."

"Far from it, Athos. I'm just staving off troubles with the lady. You don't know her, let me tell you, she's just as saver and want to know where every penny went…"

"Porthos." Athos called out and put his head on the headrest.

"Yes, my friend?"

"Next time you tell lies, try to use fewer words."

"Oh…"

Porthos fidgeted in his place, unable to cast an eye on Athos, too conscious of being trapped in the lie. Grimaud, who was going out the kitchen, noticed it and stop, uncertain if he should interrupt.

"Grimaud?" Athos called out; maybe he noticed the tinkling of the mugs.

That was the signal the servant was expecting and he approached with the drinks and gave Porthos a brown portfolio.

"You forgot the quill and ink, you dumb mute!"

The voice surprised both servant and master, Porthos tried to release some the pent-up mood that Athos advice gave him. In other times, Athos and his mute would sigh and let it be, but Athos' hand in his arm cut short his diatribe.

"Porthos, I'm most grateful to you for keeping the house running," Athos was being sensible and leveled, as usual, "but refrain yourself from yelling to Grimaud, please."

It was all out of the blue and most atypical in Athos' character that Porthos' jaw dropped and Grimaud froze in his place with a quizzed expression.

"Quill and ink, please," Athos commanded and took one of the warm mugs from Grimaud's hand.

Even when Grimaud retreated to the building after placing the other mug on the bench—turning his head a couple of times, as if he was trying to make sense of what just had happened—, Porthos was still racking his brain and trying to figure out the scene.

"Sit down, Porthos, and take a nip," Athos closed his eyes and took his first sip, "I'll sign your papers, you won."

Porthos sat but he was still too marveled to speak or even to drink. Athos took the portfolio and read the folia in it; his posture was all parsimony, not even frowning at the words, parsing the clauses with ease, like almost everything in him.

Grimaud came with the writing implements and Athos wrote his name at the bottom and in the margins, then he communicated some other orders in a flurry of hand signs and Grimaud retired with the portfolio and the inkwell after a deferential nod.

"What was it?" Porthos finally raised his cup and tried to sip. The liquid inside was not tea. "You two are too fluent for me to understand everything."

Athos darted an alarmed look to his friend, then he realized Porthos was pulling his leg. "The document need my seal, I remember Grimaud to stamp it properly."

"My behavior was less than exemplar." Porthos sipped his wine; it was such a good vintage. "I apologize, Athos."

"There is no need." Athos threw his head behind, enjoying the sun.

Since Athos closed the topic, Porthos was happy to oblige. They just sat for a long while and drank from their mugs sparingly; it was just like the old times in Paris, only with more light and less wine. Porthos wondered if Athos was aware of the oddness. Luckily for Porthos and his brain, Raoul reappeared by the corner, followed by his little friend, and began to madly do signals to him and, although they were not Athos and Grimaud, the message got clear. Porthos nodded and braced himself for the next tantrum of the Count, who maybe would not be too pleased with his new meddling in Bragelonne affairs.

" _Pa_!" Raoul called out running with his hands close to his chest, too excited to let the little stranger move on its own.

Athos turned his head and smiled to the boy. Then he noticed the short haired, tan colored beast in the Viscount's arms. Athos' forehead got profoundly creased but he couldn't utter one word, because Raoul overrode him with his childish delight.

"Look, _pa_! Look at it!" Raoul began to explain the dog to Athos even before he reached them, "Porthos gave it to me, isn't it cute? It would be a big dog, big enough to follow a horse, he said it so. Not the dog, Porthos!" Raoul mistook Athos face of bewilderment and outrage for confusion. "I have my own dog!"

"A dog?" Athos managed to articulate, casting his eye to Porthos. "You got him a _dog_?"

"Why not?"

Part of Porthos wanted to laugh at the scene.

"I called it Raoul," Raoul explained and held the little beast against Athos's head. "So everyone can tell it is my dog."

"You can't give it _that_ name!"

Surely, Athos would begin a tirade on the propriety of names; but at the time, the puppy chose to lick the tip of Athos's nose and Porthos noticed how the blood flooded in to his friend's head. Athos was dangerously near to a temper explosion; Porthos butted in without giving them so much time as to edge in a word, because a child should never see his father lose his wits in the spectacular way Athos used to do it; at least, not a child as little as Raoul.

"You might not believe it but there may be a point of true." Porthos said and took the creature in his big hand. "Who will come running when _M. le Comte_ shout 'Raoul' at the top of his lungs?"

"Oh!" Raoul turned his head to Porthos. "Never thought of it…"

"Well, take your dog and give the matter a little thought." Porthos handed over the puppy, "Then, you can make the proper presentations."

The children scrambled over the corner of the house with the puppy and Porthos laughed at their hasty retreat; in his book there was nothing like innocent pleasure. By his side, Athos was busy wiping puppy drool from his face.

"Get used to it," Porthos advised, "Dogs like to lick people."

"Not that I asked to have the drooling, yapping beast at home."

"You need a dog, if Raoul is to learn how to hunt. A boy needs a dog, too; I have fond memories of my own, and it's the perfect companion of adventures for a bundle of activity like Raoul."

"I would have appreciated that you would leave to me the choice, about the time and the race," Athos grunted and looked away.

"And the name, I bet my hat on it." Porthos raised his tea and managed to down it without a grimace. "Just for you to know, I had a cur named Georges once."

"But that's not your name…" Athos sulked and gave his friend a sideways glance.

"Are you sure?"

The look on Athos's face when he noticed that he didn't even know Porthos' name was indescribable; Porthos didn't even try to quell the hearty laugh that came from the deeps his chest. One of the things that kept the inseparables together all these years was the relative anonymity given by their _noms de guerre_ and how the managed to find their way purely on their facades was a modest miracle. They were family and they barely knew each other, Athos was not impervious to the irony and let his laugh out with all the appeal of the times gone.

They sigh when the hilarity seemed to be spent, but a quick glance threw them in tatters again and soon Grimaud was poking his head out of the window in the second story to inquire on the motive of that ruckus. Knowing that someone was keeping an eye on them made them regain their composure. Athos eyed his friend and shook his head a little before reaching for his tea.

"Is it an important name?" Porthos asked when he regained his voice. He was not a man to mince words. "For you, I mean... Raoul."

"It was my father's name," Athos said and took a sip, his eyes were a little glazed as he kept an eye on the border of the grove. "It is my child's name. I don't want to call a dog that name."

Porthos felt the urgent spur of curiosity and it took every ounce of his will to keep his mouth shut. Athos was more prone to share tidbits of his life if one just sits still and silent. Not that Porthos was awfully successful trying that particular stratagem.

"I have been thinking a lot of him, these last days." Athos muttered almost to himself.

Sensing a tasty morsel Porthos did his best to not react, but he could only chew on his mustaches for so long. After some heartbeats, he finally asked: "Did he drink a lot?"

"No. _M. le Comte_ was a total abstainer." Athos scratched his chin almost absent-minded. Porthos knew about the itch, the physician had warned him, but he was not sure if he should distract Athos from his memories. "I wager my habitual drunkenness had him mystified to the end of his days."

This was not a big revelation to Porthos. To achieve Athos' resistance one had to train hard.

"I suppose fathers are always baffled by their son's choices..."

Unmindfully, Athos tried to scratch his back, but the itch was out of reach and Porthos lend a hand, without thinking. This action received a thankful nod.

"I dread the day when Raoul become my little stranger, like I was to my father."

Porthos knew that look on Athos' face. He had seen it many times in Paris. Whatever was happening inside that head was dark and disheartening. From the outside, it was not pleasant to see, Porthos hardly could imagine what such kind of feeling was.

Then, it happened. Porthos was not sure why he raised his hand, and lest of all, why he slapped Athos' nape with enough force to bend him forward; if there was an outraged expletive, his ears didn't registered it. It was rude and excessive, but it did do the work and Athos' eyes were clear and sort of amused.

"Raoul is a clever boy," Athos' voice had a distinct raising tone of hilarity. "He'll find another name."

"I'm sure he will."

"It's getting a bit cold, Porthos," Athos got up; he was a little wobbly, "I think it's time to return in."

"If you think you got enough sun…" Porthos rose and got ready to help his friend with the robe.

Athos tried to walk to his residence, but his gait was not too steady and rested his weight on Porthos' obliging arm. They went to the stair landing, where Athos stopped, probably to catch his breath, but his eyes were wandering through the steps.

"Porthos…"

"Tell me."

"Maybe I should rest a bit on the salon," Athos said, his tone was matter-of-fact as usual, "I could dine with you later."

"That's a magnificent idea," Porthos agreed because it was obvious his friend realized he couldn't make his way up. "Raoul would love to have you at the table."

"If we are to make it a big occasion," Athos turned around to the corridor that leads to the salon, "I should ask Grimaud to fix me a bath."

Porthos let him go; he was having a little trouble suppressing the silly laugh at Athos efforts to retain his dignity in face of his weakened state.

 


End file.
